


Come Morning

by vetiverite



Series: Grand Pas de Deux [6]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ballet AU, Caring, Dancer Fíli, Domestic Fluff, Engagement, Epistolary, Established Relationship, Foot Massage, Grand Pas de Deuxniverse, Happy Ending, Historical AU, Imperial Russian AU, M/M, Massage, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Morning Sex, Nobleman Kíli, TLC, Tender Sex, Unrelated Fíli and Kíli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29824566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetiverite/pseuds/vetiverite
Summary: Filipp and Kyril are engaged; their pain banished, their happiness complete.  Well... almost complete.  Flowers, breakfast, and morning-after sex are the cherry on the blintz.
Relationships: Fíli & Kíli (Tolkien), Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien)
Series: Grand Pas de Deux [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646743
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Come Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linane/gifts).



> Takes place the morning after the events of "Grand Pas de Deux". Gifted to Linane, who has really been the soul of patience while I whittled this story out of a block of alabaster using naught but a dull-edged spoon.

_Saint Petersburg, Russia  
December 1893_

A click, a step, a muffled thump, and Kíli was instantly alert. 

He couldn’t help it. Even as a baby, he’d always sprung from sleep bright-eyed and clear-minded, sure of where he was and how things ought to be. He knew now, for instance, that the _click-step-thump_ belonged to the housemaid, come to lay the morning fire. She habitually tapped on the door to warn Fíli, who greatly disliked being crept up on while he slept. 

The tap came, and Kíli whispered, _Sssh, love, it’s only Anya._

 _Mmnnh_. Fíli nestled closer, tucking his head under Kíli’s chin.

The door opened, and in floated a spectre bearing a tray. It crossed the room in perfect silence, snow-white rainment gleaming faintly in the blue morning gloom. Kíli waited until it had safely deposited its burden on his nightstand before whispering, _Good morning, Anya Petrovna._

 _Good morning, Kyril Gavrilovich,_ the ghost whispered back. 

In any other setting, it would be unthinkable for a servant to call a prince of Kíli’s rank anything less than Your Grace. But this house belonged to Fíli. Titles had no place here, only patronymics. It had been up to Kíli to undo a lifetime’s habit and fit himself to this rule— a change brought about with (to his mind) astonishing ease.

Anya poured, milked, and sugared a cup of tea and placed it just so at Kíli’s elbow. It was the first of her morning rituals, carried out with the exactitude of a surgeon and the devotion of a nun.

She drew from her apron pocket a brass wick trimmer and matches with which to light the mantelpiece lamps. This task accomplished, she crossed the threshold between bedchamber and antechamber three times, bringing in a new item on each trip: coal hod, ash bucket and broom, and housemaids’ box. From the latter she drew a neatly folded oilcloth to spread over the tiles while she swept and blacked the grate.

While Anya worked, Kíli let his eyes slide shut. Memories of the previous evening – the key, the flowers, Fíli weeping at first, then radiant with hope – rose like a returning tide to engulf him in gratitude and joy. _Together_. They’d be together. Mama’s gift had unlocked a fresh realm of happiness and hope. 

He turned to nuzzle Fíli’s hair, its wavy strands glinting rose-gold in the lampglow.

 _How is…?_ Looking over her shoulder, Anya instinctively refrained from gesturing. Call her superstitious, but her fingers were coated in greasy soot, and nothing was so fair and pure as Filipp Akselovich while he slept.

 _He needs rest and quiet today,_ replied Kíli. _Would you ask Sveta to inform Khodansky that he needn’t return with the coupé? We mean not to leave this room today if we can help it._

_Shall I leave the curtains drawn?_

_For now, yes. But light the desk-lamp for me before you go. I have some letters to write if only I can…_ Kíli trailed off with a self-deprecating grin. As deeply as Fíli slumbered after a strenuous performance, his mate might not get out from under him any time soon.

After completing her duties and receiving more whispered instructions _(…if you would be so kind as to return in an hour for the letters, but delay breakfast until we ring for it…)_ Anya departed, and Kíli began to ponder what he must write and to whom. 

He’d begin with Mama, of course. She’d wish to know immediately whether her gift had had its intended effect. If so, the gears of a great machine would begin to turn.

First, she would summon Fíli to Yerevorskiy Dvorets, her palace on the Moika Canal. After offering him her hand to kiss, she would subject him to the standard pre-nuptial interrogation. Though Fíli was shy, he’d no doubt hold his own. Within a week, at a more relaxed family luncheon, Mama would award him the ritual double air-kiss of motherly approval. Once _la bise_ succeeded _baise-main_ , Kíli’s beloved would be as good as family.

But knowing Mama, it wouldn’t end there. A slave to what Fima called “sentimental bosh”, she’d want a ceremony with all the trimmings. 

A squadron of couriers would hand-deliver small cream-colored envelopes to a select group of worshipers. The gilt-edged cards enclosed therein would summon them to Yerevorskiy on a certain fortuitous date after Easter. In the private chapel, wreathed in sacred incense smoke, Father Atanasius would offer the traditional _moleben_ to Saints Kyril and Methodius. And if he then chanced to give a private benediction to two of those present… no need to trouble the Most Holy Synod, _n’est-ce pas?_

And even if they knew— what of it? Mama’s blessing might as well be that of the Tsar. Such was her privilege and power that whatever she deemed acceptable, society and Synod (and yes, the Tsar!) must perforce accept. 

_And so must Ivanov,_ Kíli inwardly gloated. _The sooner the letter’s written, the sooner sealed and sent… and then there will be no clouds to cast a shadow over our day._

 _Zeleniy,_ he whispered into Fíli’s fragrant hair. _Zeleniy… I must get up._

_Nnnnhh…_

_Only for a little._

Leaving his lover to burrow into a bank of warm pillows, Kili inched his way free, threw on his robe, and took a seat at the writing desk.

Lines of faint mirror-words tattooed the top sheet of Fíli’s blotter. Kíli – skilled at reading backward as well as forward – smiled at what he translated:

> _Ksenka, you don’t have to give the book back right away, you should keep it and read it without hurrying. Then we can talk about it during breaks. F._
> 
> _Fedya I’m tired of arguing with you!!!! You always think your right and you never_

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187011796@N05/50708357031/in/dateposted-public/)

Fíli wrote letters to only three people: Kseniya, Fedya, and Madame Glebova. He saw them every day, but he liked to practice expressing his thoughts. Madame Glebova answered letter for letter; Kseniya, one droll note for every three. Fedya never wrote back at all, for he hated his own handwriting and was too vain to commit it to paper except when autographing cabinet cards.

> _Fedya let’s not argue, I like you to much and its tiresome to pretend I don’t. Say we are both a little bit stubborn and forget the rest, all right? Have supper at our place Wensday?_

Kíli remembered that night three weeks ago— the table adorned with Christmas roses, pale green shading into pink. Fedya brought Kseniya, and they all laughed so hard they could scarcely eat. Yet in between the smiles he cast around like sunbeams, Fíli had seemed wistful. Now Kíli knew why. His beloved thought such times would soon end—but no! The house on Bol’shaya Morskaya would hold that much laughter, and more! 

  
[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187011796@N05/50999521073/in/dateposted-public/)

The poignancy of writing only to Mama struck Kíli deep. Were he still living, surely Papa would have approved. Never had he interfered with Mama’s matchmaking, except on Kíli’s behalf. And now Mama intended to follow through and formally receive Fíli into her house. With the help of heaven, love had prevailed.

  
[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187011796@N05/50999521033/in/dateposted-public/)

Here Kíli paused to fetch his tea from the bedtable and kiss Fíli’s earlobe. _I love you so much,_ he whispered.

 _Love,_ sleepy Fíli murmured into the crook of his own elbow.

Now came the test. It seemed better to be blunt and allow no footholds for argument. Kili switched to his family’s official stationery to add weight to his statement.

  
[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187011796@N05/50999520983/in/dateposted-public/)

One letter remained, and here Kíli hesitated even more than with Ivanov. To buy time, he dashed off a note to Nureev:

  
[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187011796@N05/51000339012/in/dateposted-public/)

This was to say: _Fíli has accepted me, but now I must inform the Commander._

Officers wishing to wed needed their superiors’ permission. Fatherlike, the commander considered the union carefully; if he approved, one’s fellow officers put it to a vote. Without unanimous sanction, the groom must abjure either his fiancée or his commission. There was no middle road.

Stina, the princess Kíli had been urged to engage, would have readily passed regimental muster. But she was of noble blood. Fíli was not. If not for his art, he’d be _persona non grata._ And even then…

This was the way of it. The _corps de ballet_ provided single, guilt-free nights of joy. One bought _coryphées_ dinner and _sujets_ the occasional trinket; it took little to keep them happy— and quiet. _Primas_ commanded higher reimbursement: furs, jewels, horses, houses. As for an _assoluta,_ well… all of the above, plus noble titles for the brats she bore for you.

But no more than this. Dancers exist for princes to _fuck_ , not _fall in love_ with— and certainly not to wed. Everyone, even the dancers, knew that. 

Fíli broke all the rules. And in loving him, so did Kíli.

_(Did you hear? He spurned four Serene Highnesses for that gutter sparrow! They play house on Liteyniy Prospekt— and even his brothers visit. Next thing you know, so will their wives!)_

_(I’ll give the gigolo this: when he’s not onstage, he stays out of sight. At least HE behaves decently. But the Durinevs have never cared about decency; they do as they wish and damn all else. Mighty God in all his wrath could not make that family blink…)_

It was true. Any other noble son might find himself disowned by family, cut by society, banished from court or even from Russia. But Kyril Gavrilovich was not _any_ prince, nor his family _any_ family. If the Guards cashiered him, if the Tsar banished him, it would not matter. A thousand spears could not pierce the steel armor of his name, which soon enough would be Fíli’s name...

He pulled a portfolio from the top drawer and extracted a sheet of regimental letterhead, aware it might be the last time he used it.

  
[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187011796@N05/51000223456/in/dateposted-public/)

_Moy lyubimiy._

Kíli turned away from his missive to find a tousle-haired Fíli watching him intently from the bed

Fíli called Kili _dushka_ first and foremost, sometimes _Voronoy_ for his shiny black hair, occasionally (and always in a teasing vein) _Lenski_ , after Pushkin. But for all he loved, he had never called Kíli _my beloved_ before. 

In an instant, warmth infused Kíli’s every vein. _Moy zhenikh,_ he replied. My bridegroom _._

Sea-blue eyes shining, Fíli rubbed his cheek playfully against the pillow. _What are you doing, so early?_

 _Writing important letters._ Kíli signed his name to the last and blotted it. _Did we use all the envelopes up?_

 _Middle left cubby. I reorganized._ With an indulgent smile, Fíli watched as Kíli dripped wax and pressed his signet ring onto all five envelopes. Then: _Come to me._

Kíli threw down the stick of sealing wax with such alacrity it bounced. But then he hesitated. _Anya will return soon to take all my letters away,_ he told Fíli. _I’ll leave them in the anteroom so that we can lock her out._

Fíli flipped the hem of the comforter up over his face. _Don’t be mean to Anya,_ came his muffled reproof.

_Let me rephrase: I’ll lock us IN._

The comforter promptly came down.

As it happened, Anya had beaten Kíli to the anteroom. She stood arranging a vaseful of lush pink double peonies interspersed with camellias in palest blush. A card lay on the tabletop nearby; Kíli traded his handful of envelopes for it.

On one side:

  
[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187011796@N05/51001239663/in/dateposted-public/)

On the other:

  
[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187011796@N05/51002059022/in/dateposted-public/)

Kíli snickered. Of course Fima laid claim to first congratulations, but not without a dose of wit. Even his choice of flowers amounted to a sly editorial on the happy couple. Bright, wide-open Kíli; shy, tight-petalled Fíli…

 _Shall I take them in?_ asked Anya.

 _No; I’ll do it._ Kíli hefted the vase, careful not to disarrange her work. _Have we any_ zemlyanika _left?_

Wild strawberries, intensely sweet, were Fíli’s favorite. Every meadow and glen of the Durinevs’ country estates produced these tiny gems. Plucked ripe in high summer and preserved whole, they could be enjoyed well into the depths of the bleakest Petersburg winter. 

_We may have some held aside,_ said Anya. She shot him a sly look. _Would you like_ tvorozhniki?

Kíli beamed. Those little sweet-cheese fritters were as beloved to him as the berries were to Fíli. _We’ll ring for them soon,_ he promised. _Please make certain these messages are delivered right away. All must reach their destinations within half an hour._

Yet before turning away, he took one of the envelopes back and stuffed it into his robe pocket.

Fíli sighed when he saw the bouquet. _I love peonies_.

 _And I love camellias,_ replied Kíli. _Fima knows us well._ He placed his burden on the pier table opposite the bed, the better for Fíli to view it. Now that the letters had gone, other bouquets would join it. 

Shrugging his robe off onto the nearest chair, he prowled like a panther over hills of down and satin to reach his prey. _We’re free today, love,_ he told the little blanket-covered mound of Fíli’s knees. _Free to do as we wish._

_Who did you write?_

_My mother; yours. Rusya. Now relax._ Gentle kisses landed in the furrow leading upward between two thighs _._

_Who else?_

Kíli laughed and rested his forehead against Fíli’s hip. _Lipa, I’m trying to make love to you._

 _Who else?_ Fíli could be terribly obstinate.

 _Ivanov._ Kíli hesitated. _I hope you don’t mind. I told him you would return when_ you _wished, and not before._

Lips tight, Fíli nodded. _And?_

 _My Commander— but that one I didn’t send. We’ll look at it together, later, much later._ He sat up and rubbed Fíli’s tense abdomen in a soothing figure eight. _You must not worry now. Good things are about to happen._ He let his hand stray lower. _If you let them._

In wordless reply, Fíli let go of his edge of the comforter and crossed his wrists above his head. He had slept in his robe; its sash still encircled his waist. Kíli laid hands to each loose end. _Shall I open you like a present?_ he inquired.

Barely whispered: _Please._

_Am I to be unwrapped too, in time?_

A tiny smile.

Straddling Fíli’s thighs, Kíli parted the robe and eased it off, letting the silver-grey velvet brush over his lover’s bare skin before spreading it open around him. 

Here was a feast for every sense _. Sight:_ Fíli, gaze trusting, lips parted, fair skin flushed with pleasure. _Touch:_ lithe-muscled, slippery-smooth like marble but warm, so warm; coppery hair silken under his arms, upon his chest, at the base of his belly. _Scent_ : a faint tang of salt and musk and sandalwood over warm skin…

Most of all, Kíli was struck by the peace his lover exuded that morning—a softness in remarkable contrast to the tensions of the night before. As he gently stroked Fíli’s ribs and belly, he whispered, _Everything’s different, isn’t it?_

_It is._

_We have all day._

_I know._

Suddenly the object of worship winced. It was slight, but Kíli possessed a quick eye. Cupping his palms around his lover’s hipbones, he murmured, _Do you ache still from the dance, moy zhenikh?_

Fíli shrugged _._ Telling the truth about what he felt was a skill under development, coaxed along by Kseniya, who told the truth whether you asked for it or not.

With a reproving _tch!_ Kíli rolled to one side to free Fíli’s legs and groped in the nightstand for the oil. Lovemaking could wait. 

Ballet punished its practitioners as no regimental drillmaster could. Muscle spasms, jarred joints, strains and bruises abounded. Determined to care properly for his _danseur_ , Kili had consulted Churkin, the Mariinsky’s in-house doctor.

 _I do not predict you will have an easy time of it, Your Serenity._ Adjusting his pince-nez, Churkin sighed. _In my experience, most dancers are remarkably eloquent in describing the sensations of their bodies—but Fíli is close-lipped. He must learn to be more vocal._

Remembering the night before – Fili’s growls in his ear, fingernails raking furrows across his shoulderblades – Kíli blushed magenta.

If Churkin noticed, he betrayed nothing. _Start with a warm room, warm hands, and warm oil,_ he recited. _Long easy strokes at first, using your palms to take the measure of each muscle. Note when you come to areas of tension, for you will return to press and knead them with your fingers and thumbs. If you aren’t sure whether a certain spot requires more of your efforts, ask Fili to guide you._

From the buttocks _(Be prepared to give them a great deal of attention,_ said Churkin, while Kíli desperately tried to look serious) one moved on to the hip joints and the small of the back. Traveling northward, guided by the spine, one kneaded the whole of torso in long, fluid pulls. Then came the neck and shoulders, after which Fíli turned over onto his back—their favorite part, for they could look into each other’s eyes.

For the next maneuver, Churkin had actually asked for a volunteer from the company to demonstrate. Thank god it was Fedya! He made comic faces at Kíli while the doctor folded and pressed him— _like dough for strudel,_ as he wryly put it later. Flat on his back, knees to chest and ankles crossed, he showed great forbearance as Churkin laid hands to his waist and pulled at his hips to relieve spinal tension. So Kíli did to Fíli now, cradling his patient’s hips in his arms and prompting a guttural groan as he stretched him.

_It’s all right?_

_…yes… once more…_

Kíli then moved back so that Fíli could turn his hips out to either side. This he did with concentration, feet sole to sole and bent knees pressed to the mattress, ribs rising and falling in deliberate rhythm. Then with a wriggle he relaxed, steady eyes inviting Kili between legs wantonly spread. 

But sly Kíli only smiled. _What hurts have you still?_ he inquired. _Be truthful, now._

Fíli closed his eyes and listened hard for his body’s answer. _My legs,_ he murmured. _My feet._

 _Your_ poor _legs, your_ poor _feet._ Kíli shifted around. _Did they cramp during the night?_

Fíli reluctantly nodded. He usually did his best not to awaken his bedmate in such instances, even going so far as to hobble into the dressing room, where his whimpers would go unheard.

 _You shouldn’t hide your pain, Zeleniy,_ Kíli remonstrated with him in a low, loving voice. _Give me a chance to ease you._

Another groan, this time in capitulation.

The morning after a performance, a dancer’s war-torn, blistered, bruised feet testify to the suffering their art exacts. Kili moved back so that Fíli could stretch out his legs; then he oiled his hands, took up one battered foot, and began to gently squeeze and flex it back and forth.

Fíli drew a breath in through his teeth and let it out in a slow, appreciative hiss. Then: _Talk to me._

_What about?_

_About what comes next._

_Well… we’ll receive many more bouquets, once Fima marshals the troops. And I’ve written to Mama, so she will write to you._

_To me? Not to you?_

_No, love. It’s you she’ll want to talk to._ Kíli began work the knuckles of his fist in small circles against Fíli’s sole, pressing deep into the arch. _Everything will begin with an invitation to her house, for tea._

Fíli’s eyes had begun to slide shut from the mingled pain and pleasure of Kíli’s touch. He roused himself enough to murmur, _But you’ll be there._

 _Banished to another room, maybe. But ask Lena and Katya,_ Kíli quickly added. _They had tea with Mama when Leka and Tima proposed to them, and everything turned out all right. And just as they had their mothers with them, you’ll have Praskoviya._

 _Really?_ Fíli’s expression was a swirl of hope and skepticism.

_Of course._

_You’re certain of this? It’s allowed?_

Kíli understood his fiance’s doubt. Most of his mother’s friends had never exchanged more than a syllable with a commoner unless he or she wore servants’ livery. But Princess Disa was no snob. She’d understand that Madame Glebova was to Fíli what she herself was to Kíli, and the usual pre-nuptial courtesies could be exchanged according to custom. 

_It’s more than allowed; it’s expected,_ Kíli told Fíli. _Mama is a stickler for tradition, particularly when it gives her an excuse to do exactly what she wants. She takes great pleasure in following society’s law right down to the letter before she breaks it._

This got a laugh, followed by a moan as Fíli felt Kíli’s fingertips working their way between his toes.

 _She’ll arrange everything,_ Kíli continued. _You and I will hardly have to do anything except show up. And only people who love us will be there. My brothers and their families. Praskoviya. Rusya. Kseniya and Fedya—_

Fíli’s voice was tiny, plaintive: _And Matty?_

Mathilde had been enduring many sad trials as of late. Her liaison with the Tsarevich had brought her scorn instead of respect; as his attentions waned and the foundations of her happiness eroded, she had taken to avoiding old friends as if expecting them to gloat over her misery. This saddened Fíli very much, for he liked Matty and did not wish to cause her pain. For her to be excluded while others received their little envelopes…

 _She’ll get one,_ declared Kíli. _I’ll make sure of it. Rusya amuses her. Perhaps if he’ll agree to escort her…_

Neither man spoke for a time; one was lost in concentration and the other, in pure sensation. As his ministrations drew to a close, Kíli placed a reverent kiss on the sole of Fíli’s foot, followed by a tender thumbstroke.

Fíli was even more tranquil and beautiful now for having been handled so gently, so carefully. Like a cat too drowsy to play, he caught languidly at Kíli’s fingers, smiling when his wrists were drawn above his head and pressed once more to the pillow. He was aroused now, his cock – a darker rose-tan than the rest of him – deepening in color under his lover’s worshipful gaze.

Kíli knew precisely how to coax it along. He bent to touch the very tip of his tongue to Fíli’s nipples, first one and then the other, teasing them erect while their owner watched. Who understood better the direct lines that could be drawn between one point and another with only one touch? The way Fíli bit his lower lip and clutched the pillow supplied the answer. 

Well-pleased with the results, Kíli let his lips drift lower. Fingers stole through the curls at his right temple and brushed the rim of his ear. Then came a whisper, so low he almost missed it: _I had a dream last night._

_What about?_

_Mama; Papa; Veikko. They were alive, and I was at home with them._ _There was… there was a linen curtain covering a window. It was embroidered in red with a little bit of silver in it. It glittered in the sun. I’d forgotten all about it._ Even with his eyes closed, Kíli could sense the frown that flickered over Fíli’s brow. _It… It was so_ real _, Kíli, like I’d never left home._

Kíli lifted his head to meet his love’s eyes with compassion.

 _But then…_ Fíli sighed. _But then I felt you breathing next to me._ A tiny smile, almost no more than a momentary deepening of cheek dimples. _I felt you there, and I remembered._ Two fingers rolled Kíli’s earlobe then gave it a gentle tug. _Come kiss me?_

No need to ask: Kíli came to him immediately. 

At the kiss’ conclusion, Fíli whispered, _Let me up_. They both sat up, and Fíli settled himself astride Kíli’s lap, leaning over to press their foreheads together. _Moy miliy,_ he breathed against Kíli’s lips.

 _Miliy moy,_ responded Kili before reaching up for another kiss.

Ever the purist, Dr. Churkin insisted that the massage oil Kíli used must be of the best quality, unadulterated by menthol or other stimulants, and minimally perfumed. His patients did not always use it solely according to the instructions, but it served its adapted purpose well. And thank heavens it came in a swing-top cruet — else how to explain lost corks and oil-soaked silk bedsheets?

As Fíli slowly spiraled his hips to take Kíli in, both lovers held their breath. When complete union was reached, they groaned in unison, arms wound tight around one another. All the pledges they had ever made to one another had been reaffirmed. This coupling carried a new sense of benediction, of promise and permanence.

 _Soon this will be every morning,_ Kíli whispered, gripping his lover’s waist to guide his pace.

 _Soon you’ll grow tired,_ panted Fíli as he rode, head tipped back in bliss. _You’ll want me to go_. Before last night, such words would have been spoken with fatalistic grief. But love had chosen to liberate him; all the fears he’d secretly nursed had scattered and fled into exile. 

_He’s teasing me! My Lipa—teasing!_ thought Kíli with glee. Out loud (inbetween flicks of his tonguetip against Fíli’s nipples to spur him on) he drawled, _Well… our new palace… has plenty of rooms… for me to hide..._

_Not so many that I couldn’t… ohhh… that I couldn’t find you._

_That’s good, because I intend to have you in every single one of them._

_Oh, dushka, no! If…if you… if you do that… I’ll be too shy to invite our fr—_ oh! _There, dushka, right_ there _—_

 _Yes, zhenikh moy—_ yes, _oh God—_

Kíli had not lied. Every morning would be so.

At noon, the clouds to the east over Smol’nyy Cathedral were still shell-pink rimmed with gold from the tenacious sun below. The fire had long died out; the lamps Kíli extinguished himself, vaulting naked from the bed with a regretful hiss and just as quickly plunging back under the warm comforters. 

_I’m hungry,_ he murmured against Fíli’s shoulder. _I want tvorozhniki now more than I want you._

 _That’s fair. You’ve already had me._ Fíli turned his face to sniff Kíli’s hair. _We’ll ring, and then eat, and then bathe, and then…_ He trailed off.

 _Yes. All of that,_ agreed Kíli, lunging for the bell pull. _And then more of you, and everything all over again. We’ll be in our robes all day._

_Or out of them._

With fritters, strawberry jam, and tea, Anya brought Andreas along with what seemed like an entire greenhouse. Now clad in fresh robes and ready to receive visitors, Fíli and Kíli leapt up to help the elderly butler carry everything in. In no time, the pier table and several of its companions were fully covered.

 _We’ve scoured the place top to bottom for vases,_ Andreas told his employers. _Any more bouquets, and we’ll be in trouble._

 _It’s very possible there will be more. I’ll send to the storehouse for extra vases,_ Kili assured him.

A particular pedestal in the center of the private sitting room had been reserved for an especially glorious arrangement of roses, deep peach in color, intermingled with creamy stephanotis and glossy dark green ivy. _Look, moy zhenikh,_ Kíli cried, and Anya’s cheeks flared pink. _Bridegroom!_ Now she understood the reason for all the flowers. It was the first that anyone in the household learned of this new state of things, and _she_ was the one to know! She permitted herself a quick flick of the eyes at Fíli, who of course she found peeking back at her, his eyes just as sparkling and his cheeks the same tint as hers.

Kíli handed Fíli an ivory-colored envelope and leaned in cheek to cheek with his fiancé so that they could read it together.

  
[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187011796@N05/51000338957/in/dateposted-public/)

_It’s so formal,_ whispered Fíli.

 _That’s tradition for you._ Kíli kissed his cheek. _But look! She sends her true message to you in the flowers. Roses of this hue are a sign not only that she wishes to embrace you, Lipa, but that she considers our union settled. Ivy binds us together as a loyal, loving family, and stephanotis is for happiness in marriage._ Another kiss. _The best are these, you see?_ He touched a small sprig of pale pink apple-blossom tucked in among the roses. _These come from a little orchard of four miniature trees in our greenhouse. A small flowering branch is given to every young Durinev couple at the time of their engagement. It symbolizes eternal concord—_

 _What is '_ concord'?

_Harmony between people. Between us and my family, between you and me, forever. You see, moy zhenikh?_

In her lifetime, Anya attended many weddings – most of them raucous village affairs with humble gilt bridal crowns and many more smashed glasses than called for by tradition. None stayed in her memory long, except this one: two young men, side by side and hand in hand before a riot of roses the color of a lifetime of sunrises.


End file.
